


The King and All of His Men

by KDblack



Series: In the Shadow of Midgar [5]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deception, Gen, M/M, Murder, President Shinra Being An Asshole, neither is rufus, the Turks are not to be trusted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack
Summary: Rufus Shinra's mother dies soon after Tseng joins the Turks. These facts are connected. No one knows that better than Rufus.(The kids aren't all right: a Rufus Shinra origin story.)
Relationships: Rufus Shinra & Tseng
Series: In the Shadow of Midgar [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765723
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Midgar Blues: A Turks Zine - Fic Collection





	The King and All of His Men

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Truth Isn't Always Beauty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239635) by [KDblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack). 



> The other side of [Truth Isn't Always Beauty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239635). Written for a fantastic Turks zine called Midgar Blues.

According to the records, there was a time before the Turks, but Rufus has no recollection of it. They've been there for as long as he can remember: discreet shadows following his every move, leaving quiet footsteps in his wake. At ten years old, he hasn't yet questioned their omnipresence. That doesn't mean he fails to notice when something changes.

“There's someone following us,” he says quietly out of the corner of his mouth.

“I know, dear,” his mother says, equally soft. Her smile doesn't budge an inch. “You've met Katana before. It's his job.”

“There's someone new following us,” Rufus stresses.

“Really?” His mother turns toward him and makes a show of taking his hand. It's terribly photogenic. Rufus can hear cameras snapping now. This charming image will be all over the news, he's sure, but more importantly, the gesture lets him point out the man shadowing the two of them through the mall.

“There.”

The man does not duck or shrink back. He keeps walking toward them, not slowly but not quickly either, eyes cast down at his feet. Long dark hair sits up in a bun, tucked out of the way of a jacket he isn't quite comfortable wearing. He's wearing foundation, though Rufus can't tell what it's meant to cover at this distance. Tacky sunglasses obscure most of his Wutaian features – a good decision in the current climate. He is not wearing a suit, but something in his crisp, restrained movements suggests that he should be. He is definitely armed.

With dual pangs of embarrassment and satisfaction, Rufus realizes he's blown the cover of a new Turk. Now that he's thinking about it, he actually recognizes this one – a recent hire. He looks taller outside company property.

“It's all right,” his mother says. “Better to check than risk it. Besides,” she adds with a tone of false sweetness, “the Turks are your father's men. Don't be afraid to keep tabs on them. He doesn't own you.”

Rufus turns his head away and lets his eyes rove over the storefronts. Lots of clearance sales going on. Everyone is eager to unload their Wutaian merchandise, even if it's a cheap imitation – especially if it's a cheap imitation. Rats will flee a sinking ship. They know which way the wind is turning.

“All right. I'll add this one to the list,” he says. It gets him a laugh and a gentle pat on the hand before they move on, ignoring their faithful shadows.

* * *

Rufus' understanding of the situation is relatively simple: Shinra wants to expand its reactors to Wutai. Wutai, the country, but also Wutai, the people, do not want mako reactors on their land. Rufus' father does not want Wutai, the country or the people, on what he already sees as his land. Rufus' mother does not want Shinra dragged into a war against a nation which spans an entire continent and specializes in materia and guerrilla warfare. She feels their profit margins are large enough. They can afford to focus on refining their current holdings rather than expansion.

Needless to say, Rufus' father does not agree. They've been politely contradicting each other in interviews for months now, though at this point, that's a familiar pattern. Only the topic is new. Rufus doesn't remember the last time his parents slept in the same bed.

It's fine. The Shinra family is a reflection of their company: different departments all operating under separate guidelines, but working toward the same goal. Heidegger and Scarlet don't have to like each other to do their jobs and do them well, so why would Rufus' parents need to get along in order to keep being his family? He spends four days a week with his father's people on the management and science end of things and three days with his mother's people studying public relations and organization. In between, he is poked, prodded, and tutored. What little spare time he has is dedicated firmly to his own pursuits: Turk-watching, worming his way into the company intranet, and the little video projects he puts together for his mother to grade on message, effectiveness, and realism. He wasn't very good at thinking like a consumer when he started, but it's been several years since then, and he's gotten better. Much, much better.

Technically speaking, Rufus isn't allowed to film company property. But he's not technically allowed to hack the cameras so they show him sleeping instead of slipping out, flash drive in hand, and padding to his mother's rooms, and that certainly won't stop him. If he's caught, he'll apologize, but he's confident he won't need to. He's not a little kid anymore. Besides, Martial Arts is on duty tonight, and she's just a fraction less familiar with his capabilities than her colleagues – a fact which is irritating until it works to his advantage.

No one ever specifically sat Rufus down and explained to him how to hack a security camera or set up a falsified video loop. They didn't have to. His entire life has been spent with a living backdrop of black and navy suits, clever fingers, and just enough restlessness for a little boy to take advantage of. If his parents didn't want him to pick up these and a thousand other useful skills, they should've kept him away from the Turks.

Really, he thinks he activates the loop of himself sleeping and slips out of bed, it's his father's own fault. He wouldn't need to hack anything if his father could go fifteen minutes without checking the cameras. Paranoia is like a dog: graceful and intimidating when well-trained, and otherwise just obnoxious. He eases open the door and pads down the hall to his mother's suite, changing the camera feeds on his PHS as he goes. The light is on inside, its warm yellow reflected on the false wood floor. Rufus goes to knock, then pauses. The Turks have been twitchy of late. If he makes a noise, they will know he's here.

Forget that. He'll sneak in and surprise her.

The door's electronic lock is broken. Excellent, now he has a legitimate reason to be here. His footsteps are soundless as he slides inside, hooding his eyes against the light. The room is wide and airy, with screens set up like windows. Animal calls and video of forests surround him as he looks for a hiding place.

Under the couch? No, he can't fit down there anymore. Behind the curtain? Ha. Laughable. He could venture into another room, but the longer he spends looking, the more likely he is to get caught. The thought is enough to make him grit his teeth. He settles on the huge organ in the corner, the one his mother brought with her from her old house. It's a functional instrument, but the sound is always a bit tinny, probably because the pipes are too short for its size. The leftover space was repurposed for a cubbyhole long ago. It's big enough for a grown man, if he scrunched tightly enough. Rufus has no trouble fitting himself inside. His mother will be happy to find him exercising some healthy paranoia. She's the one who showed him this hidden space, after all. He eases the door shut, peers through the crack, and waits.

Six minutes, forty-five seconds. That's how long it takes for his mother to enter the room. She's scrubbed off her make-up, revealing stress lines around her eyes and the creases of her forehead. They're deeper than he remembers. Without her armour, she looks terribly human. But her gaze is sharp as ever, and when she surveys the room, Rufus prepares himself to be found.

Before her eyes can find him, there's a knock at the door. In a flash, the weariness is gone, replaced with good cheer and a soft, welcoming smile.

“Yes?” she calls. No answer is forthcoming. Her smile grows teeth.

Rufus settles down to watch as she stalks toward the door. A visitor who won't use the intercom and didn't call ahead? That speaks of misplaced employees, SOLDIER pranks, or Turk business. He hopes it's the latter. The Turks are always interesting.

His mother steps out of view and opens the door. An awful wet sound fills his ears. He feels rather than hears her stumble backward, vibrations carried through the floor to the piano to his skin. Then the screaming starts.

Shock and disbelief war for supremacy before horror surges up to neatly behead them both. For the first and last time in his life, Rufus Shinra freezes, unable to process what's happening.

The new Wutaian Turk, the one who followed them through the mall, crouches low over his mother, dragging a knife back and forth over her chest. Each stroke brings fresh stains to the impractical mix of fishnets and robes he's wearing. There's so much screaming. Rufus has never heard anything like it before. An answering keen dies in his throat. He cannot make a sound.

If he could move, he could throw the door open. If he could speak, he could shout an order. If, if, if.

He stays curled in the cubbyhole, hands tight over his mouth and nose, heartbeat echoing like thunder, as his mother breaks her painted nails off in the Turk's face.

It takes her a long, long time to die. The Turk bows over her when she finally goes limp. Without her screams, the room feels empty. Harsh breathing can't fill the absence. Rufus watches through the crack as the Turk brushes long, dark hair from his face, moving like he wants to pull it back. He stops the gesture halfway through with a fleeting grimace and lets his hand fall to his side. Blood shines wetly on his fingers. His fake silks are as ruined as the carpets.

 _Father will be angry about the stains,_ Rufus thinks stupidly, then backtracks. Even with his mind sluggish and so, so close to shutting down, he can't let such an inaccurate statement stand. _Father will be pleased._

So this is why Veld hired a Wutaian Turk when Midgar is at the edge of war.

Security shows up almost fifteen minutes too late. They grab the Turk, who spent the intervening time sitting quietly by the body, and begin throwing him around. The sharp crack of breaking bone rings out. Rufus watches blood drip from the ruin of the Turk's nose and feels nothing. Finally, they tire of their punching bag and drag him out into the hallway, leaving Rufus' mother where she fell.

Just the two of them left. The room is very quiet. Rufus brings up the camera feeds on his PHS and sets them to loop again. Then he crawls out of the cubbyhole and walks toward his mother. Bone shows through her face. Her eyes have both burst; the jelly is pooled on the floor. White-blond hair rests around her face, limp and bloodstained.

“Good night,” he says softly, and drifts back to bed. He does not sleep. In the morning, he finds the broken pieces of the flash drive trapped in his clenched hand.

The Wutai War officially starts a week later.

* * *

At first, Rufus counts the days since his mother's death out of habit, or perhaps some kind of coping mechanism. When he realizes that nobody is going to tell him anything more than a few cursory condolences, his motivation quickly shifts to spite. He's shut away for his own safety while his grieving father takes a tour of Junon, building military fervor. Rufus has to learn the official story – Wutaian assassin, committed suicide in prison, blame laid firmly at Godo Kiseragi's feet – from the twenty-four hour TV broadcasts covering the case. His father stares solemnly out from the screen, eyes glittering with unshed tears. Rufus stares back for hours on end, unblinking, until the Turks assigned to watch him shift and whisper uncomfortably. It's disgusting how quickly people forget.

He keeps track of the ones that won't meet his eyes. There's a startling number of them. Even the ones who make eye contact tend to shudder once they think he's looked away. The first time he notices this is the first time he truly smiles since his father had his mother killed.

It takes six long months for the new Wutaian Turk to return. Somewhere in the depths of Rufus' cold, murky thoughts lies a trace of surprise. He'd thought his father would be more thorough than that. Perhaps it was Veld's idea to keep the man. Veld has always been practical.

Except, Rufus realizes, _man_ is the wrong word. The Turk who reports to him with a crisp new suit and only the faintest sign of healing bruises cannot be more than fifteen. It's the first time Rufus has truly seen him, no disguises, no false assumptions. Just the fall of long, dark hair over one shoulder and uneasiness gleaming in black, black eyes.

“Was it fun?”

The Turk looks at him, silent. Waiting.

“I suppose not,” Rufus says. The words fall like snowflakes: perfect, frigid, gone without a trace. “Weapons generally don't get to enjoy themselves, do they.”

Now the Turk goes carefully still, the way they do right before they strike. “Please don't speak of such things, sir.”

How ironic. The one who murdered his mother is now begging him to keep quiet about it. Rufus does, in the end, because spreading the word or even leaking it to the media wouldn't solve anything. His father's power is too deeply entrenched now. Nobody will believe it, not with the Wutai War underway. If he wants President Shinra to suffer – and he does, oh lord, he does – he will need to be much, much more thorough in his vengeance. Until then, he contents himself with a subtle jab and the silence which is becoming his trademark. His new watchdog stands quietly beside him with a mask of studied neutrality. It doesn't quite cover up the fear underneath.

The Turk's name is Tseng. Rufus learns this, not from Tseng himself, but from Martial Arts when she comes to relieve him. She laughs, slaps Tseng on the back, and congratulates him on bouncing back from a Kalm Fang attack so quickly. Rufus looks through them and digs his nails into the palm of his hand.

On the screen, his father talks about how important his wife was and sheds a single tear.

* * *

Few people know that Marianne Shinra provided much of her husband's start-up money. Only a couple more know that she ran Shinra's PR department with an iron fist. She was there at the beginning, shoring up the foundations of a dream with her painted smile, chiming laugh, and determination to never, ever yield. In her absence, the whole thing begins to crumble. The war is going well, but on the home front, they're losing the peace. As the years pass, more and more slips through the cracks.

Urban Development tries its best to keep going, but nobody is listening to the basic facts of what a company – a city – needs to function. Funding concentrates in mako reactors, on Plateside investments, in fleets of ships which rust in the waters off Junon. Meanwhile, construction beneath the Plate halts, half-finished buildings left to rot. The Turks do what they can, but they're his father's men, and his father doesn't care.

All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put Midgar together again. And the king? He won't even try.

 _Maybe,_ Rufus thinks, slow and treasonous, _it's time for a new king._

Tseng is watching him when he comes to this conclusion. Tseng often watches him, trading shifts when necessary. The other Turks talk about it behind both their backs – how unseemly it is for Tseng to show his interest when Rufus is barely even into his teens. On the rare occasions Rufus lets himself dwell on those assumptions, he laughs his throat raw.

Really, how foolish. These people are meant to be trained professionals. Don't they know the difference between simple attraction and the horrified fascination of watching a fire rage out of control?

Tseng is watching him. Rufus can hear the thoughts clicking into place. One of the Turk's hands twitches toward a knife concealed by his hip. Then it hesitates.

Rufus turns away from the window overlooking Midgar, lips curving up in one of his mother's flawless magazine smiles. “Well?”

Black eyes stare back at him. There is no give to them, but he can still smell weakness. “The president will return from Junon within the hour, sir.”

Laughter bubbles up like molten glass on his tongue. “Is that a warning?”

“No, sir,” Tseng says quietly. Again, his hand twitches for the knife. Again, he stops himself.

Rufus hums softly and turns away from the window. Quick steps carry him deeper into the building, to the lift, and then down to the spot where he's expected to greet his father after another long absence. They'll shake hands just long enough to satisfy the cameras before Rufus is once again swept aside, into the dark, forgotten. Like a doll. A priceless toy, good only for carefully-posed photoshoots.

It's not far from the truth. Some things, once broken, can never be repaired.

He's one of them.


End file.
